And the little bright flowers in the grasses,
Cyclamen, daffodil,
Are crushed by the foot that passes,
But seem to grow thicker still;
In the cool grey fig-tree's shadows
They grow at their own free will,
In the grass as in English meadows,
On the slope of an English hill.
Is it best, when the lone flute-player
Wanders by with his strange little tune
And the muezzin sings out for prayer
Thrice daily his Arabic rune:
Once, when the sunset has faded,
Once in the brilliant noon,
Or once in the daybreak, rose-shaded.
A farewell to the dying moon?
LEBLEBIDJI*
I KNOW so well the busy cries
That echo through the quarter
Till daylight into evening dies
And stars shine in the water,
So dear they have become to me,
Leblebidji! leblebidji!
On peaceful English country nights
Their rapid gay succession
And all the sea-reflected lights
Will pass from my possession,
But never from my memory,
Leblebidji! leblebidji!
Past English evening scents and sounds,
Past English church-bells ringing,
The Turkish watchman on his rounds,
The Turkish pedlar singing
Through narrow streets above the sea
"Leblebidji! leblebidji,"
Will surely pierce a ghostly way,
The music underlying,
And in the shades of falling day
As in the distance dying,
A little call will come to me,
"Leblebidji!" …
* Little white beans
THE MUEZZIN
ABOVE the city at his feet,
Above the dome, above the sea,
He rises unconfined and free
To break upon the noonday heat.